


Don’t fear the Reaper

by vlefayne



Category: Nygmobblepot - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Falling In Love, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Murder-Suicide, Nygmobblepot, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Oswald's name is not really mentioned, Puppy Edward, Riddles, Tumblr Prompt, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 09:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11437575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlefayne/pseuds/vlefayne
Summary: Writing prompt: After witnessing a death, Edward falls in love with the Grim Reaper.





	Don’t fear the Reaper

 

_Death comes to us sooner or later, so it only adds to your pain to fear it._

 

Edward knows it’s _implausible_.

He knows; humans rely on a tried-and-true method to make sense of dying and mortality – and in place, they give death a form they recognize, turning something abstract into something real and tangible. It’s all in their heads, the stories they conjured and the depictions of that invisible phenomenon called _death_.

The Greeks called him Thanatos, the god of death. Norse mythology described them as beautiful women, reminiscent of angels, called Valkyries. During the Middle Ages, the concept of the Angel of death embodied Death as a skeletal figure, something menacing, a sombre symbol of the inevitability of death.

 _Not surprising_ , Edward scoffs, considering the medieval-era plague that caused millions to die in outbreaks known as the black death. The Grim Reaper was then born from these post-plague visions, as a mascot of death. Artworks that hung upon the walls of museums watched the hooded figure playing off the deepest fears of the unknown.

It’s merely manifestation of the imagination to make sense impending mortality.

At least that’s what Edward tries to tell himself, after all, he’s a man of _logic_.

Therefore, logically, he can’t have seen the Grim Reaper.

Granted, he’s seen _dead bodies_ , he’s a bloody _forensics pathologist_ ; but he’s never really seen anyone _die in front of his eyes_.

So, when Edward watched his father in bed, deep in ten shades of agony slowly ebbing away right in front of his eyes, he had never expected literal _death_ to grace him with his presence. _His imagination_ , Edward ultimately decides, was oddly not like how he expected the Grim Reaper to look like. No scythe. No hood. No skeletal figure.  Instead, _it_ , was dressed in a rather expensive looking suit and armed with what looked like an umbrella. It paid little attention to the inquisitive gaze of Edward, instead tapping his father’s shoulder lightly, movements astute, as if it were routine.

There was a ringing sound bouncing off the white walls of the hospital room as the heartbeat monitor stopped dead, the peculiarly long resounding bleep like an alarm going off in Edward’s ears.

Nurses entered the room without slowing their stride, one grabbing his father’s hand to take a pulse and another hurriedly checking the heartbeat monitor. The doctor walked in, seconds later, his face like a brick, movements sharp and with purpose – rapidly swooping up and down his father’s bedside, barking up orders but Edward knew it was too late, he was sure of it, _his father was dead_.

Instead of acknowledging the murmurs from the nurses that offered their apologies, Edward nodded nonchalantly, unable to tear his eyes away from the figure slowly exiting the room. It was odd, for during this exchange, none made eye contact or spoke to the opulently dressed feature in the room.

It was then Edward realized, quite in disbelief, that he had seen the Grim Reaper.

* * *

 Edward’s day begins when someone dies.

It sounds positively morbid, but he’s mostly used to it.

As a forensic pathologist, he’s seen many things, worked with many _cadavers_. He’s not one to be bothered. In fact, he’s more intrigued than mortified. The whole shebang is a riddle to him, something he’s awfully good at: after all, he’s been able to solve a large quantity of unusual deaths: exsanguination caused by a stab wound or ligature strangulation – he’s uncovered it all.

The conundrums he has faced, nothing but a human scale puzzle piece to solve and he’s done it. Nothing is unexplainable.

Edward has done his morning routine report review from the deputy coroner’s investigators: poor old Mrs. Taggert found dead in her house hold sometime during the previous twenty-four hours. Mrs Taggert’s face was awfully discoloured when they found her in her bathroom, but she seemed strangely cleaned up as if she had been scrubbed off any evidence before the police had arrived.

Still, her husband had insisted that she succumbed to a sudden cardiac arrest after her bath and was questionably quick to abandon the idea of homicide.

 _Dubiously hasty at that_.

So, as per normal, Edward’s left to figure it out.

The cold autopsy room reminds him faintly of _it._

It’s been a week since Edward’s father died and he had taken that week off to let his life slowly falls back into place. Appreciatively, he had not caught a glimpse or the silhouette of the dark _figure_ ever since, and silently elected to regard that night as something of his mind's eye. After all, it’s trivial to pursue something so illogical _, right_? It’s his imagination.

So, it’s a rude shock when Edward finds himself staring at the stainless-steel counter top and sees a pair of pale blue eyes staring back.

Against his logic, Edward clears his throat awkwardly.

“Excuse my manners; but this room is reserved for examining homicides and decomposed bodies, you are _not_ supposed to be in here.”

He pauses for a moment or two, before directing his gaze towards the _thing_ behind him.

It’s got a pair of befuddled blue orbs that unexpectedly accentuates that purple brocade tie on its neatly donned suit. Edward scoffs internally. _Barely resembles anything menacing_. It doesn’t reply Edward, instead gracing the pathologist a twitch of the brow.

Unsure whether to feel offended that his figment of imagination wasn’t offering any sort of conversation, Edward surmises to continue his examination, fixing his attention onto the rubbery-looking corpse on his autopsy table.

 _Heart attacks_ , Edward mutters under his breath _, is the death of a segment of heart muscle caused by the loss of bloody supply._

He tucks his gloved hands underneath Mrs Taggert’s cold body, lifting her elbow up and examining bits and pieces, like a puzzle piece. Pensively, Edward recalls that the report states that poor old Mrs. Taggert had suffered from a heart disease, but nothing too severe.

Picking up a scalpel, he began cutting into flesh.

At the corner of his eye, he can see it silently watching. _What is it waiting for_?

He decides to ignore it. There’s no point trying to emit a response.

Normally, Edward concludes, as he carefully dissects the lady’s inside, if death is caused by a heart attack, the vessel of the heart will have a thick viscous substance that looks awfully like yellow nasal discharge forming a blockage in one or more of the cardiac arteries. Observing the strawberry-jam looking clots, it’s apparent that Mrs Taggert did die from a sudden cardiac arrest.

 _So, was her husband, right_? Edward frowns, shaking his head. _It’s not that unassuming. Maybe her husband was the trigger? An argument of some sort?_

A verbal altercation has physiological consequence even without physical contact. Edward pokes around her neck, emotional stress provoked by criminal activity of another person could cause this _homicide by heart attack_.  For some reason, it just didn’t fit, Edward taps his fingers on the stainless-steel table, deep in thought.

If so, the implications of death in such a circumstance is different to that of a physical assault, since it’s not necessarily illegal to _argue_ with someone.

There is a rugged sniffle from the corner of the room.

Edward glowers at nothing in particular. The thing in the room transpires to be tremendously unnerving, so much so he wants so badly to pull at his hair.

 _Wait_.

Speedily but cautiously, Edward lifts Mrs. Taggert’s head up and runs a hand down her scalp, grinning when he feels a tough bump at her head. Judging from the size of the bump, Edward identifies that there’s a high probability that the old lady’s head had collided with something hard – perhaps the wall, or most likely – he measures the size of the bump – a fist.

 _The presumed mechanism of death in the case was a cardiac dysrhythmia, related to underlying heart disease, but initiated by physical stress_.

Edward realises he has said it out loud because there’s a soft clapping noise from behind. He twists around in time to see the figure walk casually over to Mrs. Taggert’s body, leaning across the stationary corpse and tapping her shoulder with his hand.

There’s a gentle _sigh_ that echoes around the room and Edward _swears_ he hears the voice of the old lady thanking him.

After Edward assures himself that he’s not obviously high from smelling the formalin, he turns to his left to inspect the strange humanoid creature, who seems unruffled by the fact that Edward can see him.

“Um.” Edward begins, silently wondering if he’s gone off his rocket. “Uh.” His throat is dry.

He’s not usually this incompetent at speaking.

 “You beat me every day, yet I always win. I am first and last, and come for your kin. Before you came many, after comes more. You always leave when at my door.”

He splutters incoherently.

“Who am I?”

“Is that a riddle?” The thing _actually_ speaks, strangled and mocking.

Edward manages to nod.

“ _Hilarious_.” It looks far from amused. “Death.” It whispers, in throaty hum.

Edward gulps.

“As such,” It continues, drawling, “There’s usually _death_ when humans do see me.”

“Guess I’m _lucky_.” He manages to stammer.

“Oh I doubt that.” And with that it disappears, leaving Edward to gawk, horrified at the empty space where it once stood.

* * *

About once or twice a month, Edward gets called to go out to a death scene to work with the police investigators in understanding what happened to the decedent, in determining whether the case could be classified as a homicide.

Today, Edward faces a victim found lying tattered in gritty muck. Ivory skin splattered and face half submerged in mud. He bends down to take a closer look at the body, wincing slightly in annoyance at the flashes of camera lights. It’s apparent that the victim had been psychically assaulted, a deep puncture to his neck.

The puncture is oddly square. Not done in by a knife, he infers. Possibly a thick cane or baton  of some sort.

He steps back and immediately freezes.

From the glare of the flashing lights, he spots _it_ once more.

Just like Edward a few moments ago, it’s bent forward, eyeing the body with a bizarre sort of enthusiasm.

“ _What are you doing_?” He hisses before comprehending the fact that no one else can see it. A few odd looks were thrown his way and Edward hurries to find something else to do instead.

Hurriedly, he scouts the rest of the street alley.

“What are _you doing_?” The same surly voice he’s heard just a few days ago hovers at his side.

Edward visibly shudders before glancing furtively about, making sure that no one is directly in earshot before glaring hotly at the Grim Reaper (he’s decided to call it grim reaper, it’s easier that way, he’s not getting attached to it, _not at all_ ).

“Looking for _something_.” Edward mutters with clenched teeth. And after a moment of hesitation, “Aren’t you going to send his departed soul off or something and be on your merry way?”

The Grim Reaper blinks owlishly and merely shrugs.

He clicks his teeth, irritated. He doesn’t know why it’s presence feels contemptuous, as if it was here to mock his ineptitude.

Edward stops when he notices a small lump near the rubbish bin. He barely makes out what seemed to be a burgundy coloured shoe plastered in drying mud, the rubicund shade hardly noticeable in the muck. A short way off lay its pair, scarcely seen underneath the bin with its heel broken off.

A dawn of realisation hits him.

“The more you take, the more you leave behind. What am I?” He utters under his breath.

Swiftly, he goes back to the motionless victim’s body and inspects the ground beneath it. The body had been left out in the sun for a couple of hours, and he appreciates the fact that the ground underneath had dried, holding the shape of an imprint. To his delight, a shoe impression laid nearby and he let out a quiet hurray under his breath.

“Footprints.” The Grim Reaper ripostes, languidly at his side. “You seem to like your riddles.”

Edward snorts in agreement.

He deduces immediately that it belonged to the same buried high heeled shoes. 

_The puncture on the neck was done in by a heel!_

Edward beams to himself and explains his rationale to the sergeant, who appraises him for his keen eye. He mentions something about a witness that saw a woman from the bar leave the alley without any shoes and Edward knows they are close to solving the case.

He’s about to head off to the forensics team to get them to pick up the evidence when he spots the Grim Reaper once more, bent over the victim’s body and its hand tapping gently upon the shoulder of the corpse. Even with the buzz of police officers interrogating witnesses, he can hear _the sigh_ that escapes the victim soul, gratified and sated.

The Grim Reaper stands back upright and twists around to shoot a momentary gaze at Edward, before nodding in acknowledgment and dematerializing out of existence.

Edward, _for the life of him_ , cannot decipher what’s going on anymore.

* * *

 Edward sees it again, a few times this week.

It’s become this peculiar routine: it appears whenever he’s performing his autopsies, drops an occasional mordant remark, taps the shoulders of the deceased, who sighs, and it disappears.

It’s even more bizarre that Edward’s growing more _accustomed_ to it.

They don’t talk much, save for the few scathing observations that it gives whenever Edward dissects his cadavers, or whenever he tries to start up a tête-à-tête with it. It’s preposterous to be talking with the Grim Reaper, and Edward has never once thought that he would be doing so – but here he is, exchanging occasional stares with this far-fetched idea.

Today, it lounges casually at the side of the autopsy table, side eyeing the petite sized corpse.

“Sad, isn’t it,” It intones, not sounding upset at all, “How a child should be on this table?”

Edward nods gravely.

“I had the impression that Grim Reapers do not feel sad.” He bounces a reply playfully.

It shrugs as a retort.

“And I had the impression that humans experience _distress_ whenever they see me.” It hums after a moment.

Edward nods once more.

They lapse into comfortable silence before it taps the child’s shoulder and leaves.

* * *

“So, is there like a rule to sending off departed souls? Because I’ve been noticing a pattern.” Edward scrunches up his nose at the ruptured lung of his current corpse.

The Grim Reaper snorts.

It’s a pleasant sound, Edward thinks.

“Enlighten me.” It drones haughtily.

“Well,” Edward picks up the bullet lodged deep in muscle tissue with forceps, examining for a brief moment before placing it into a stainless-steel container. “You seem to take them away only after I’ve figured out how they _died_.”

It let out a hollow chortle.

“ _Astute,_ but unfortunately, wrong.” It watches Edward an unreadable expression on its face.

But it doesn’t provide anything else after that.

* * *

The next time they meet, Edward is trimming extra tissue off a large rotund cadaver, the excess tissue interfering with his procedure.

“Strangulation.” He asserts, matter of factly, pointing at the dark bruises on the victim’s throat. “His bones have been crushed, causing the discoloration at his throat.”

It nods in assessment.

“Aren’t you going to take his soul away?” Edward pipes up after a while. “We’ve figured out the cause of death.”

The Grim Reaper shoots him a scowl but does so anyway.

Before it leaves, it answers Edward’s burning question.

“I can take them anytime, but I always find it _better_ to lead them away when they’ve come _to terms_ with _why_ they’ve died.”

He shudders.

It’s been a while since Edward last felt unnerved.

* * *

“The hammer is used with the chisel to separate the calvarium.” Edward explains slowly, gently extricating the upper part of the cranium from the lower part of the skull. “When you are finished locking it in place,” He uses the hook attached to the hammer, “This hook helps you pull the calvarium away, creating a skull cap.”

The Grim Reaper doesn’t usually bother with Edward’s ramblings but today it looks markedly invested.

It only takes Edward a moment to realise why.

“Eddie,” A concerned query enters the room. “Are you _alright_?”

Edward almost _drops_ all his tools in horror.

“Miss K-Katherine!” He gasps in surprise, usually the forensics officers stayed away from the autopsy rooms which meant - the sudden intrusion conspires something ill-fated. “Yes, yes I am fine.” Edward pushes his glasses up nervously, offering a tight-lipped smile.

“Eddie.” The forensic officer’s voice is tense, “You’ve been talking to yourself.” That’s not a question. “Are you sure you are alright?” That’s a question.

Edward shakes his head.

The Grim Reaper stares pointedly at him.

Realising his mistake, he nods eagerly instead before shaking once more, trying to dispose of the disquiet.

Katherine sighs.

“Look Eddie, I know it’s been a rough few weeks for you, especially after your father’s untimely demise.” She looks genuinely worried, “Do you need to see a psychiatrist? Talk to someone, maybe?”

Edward shakes his head sternly.

“ _No, no, no_.” He waves his hands, “I’m just going through the motions. I swear I’m fine.” He lets out a choked laugh to try to ease the tension in the room but fails to make it sound anything but distress.

Katherine isn’t convinced but she lets it go, and departs with a small smile of reassurance.

Edward wants to dig a hole and hide in it forever.

The Grim Reaper, thankfully, does not offer any sardonic quip after that.

* * *

Edward’s a little more cautious after that.

He locks the doors, makes sure that no one is around the corner and speaks diminutively softer.

“They think I’ve gone mental.” He mutters, glaring accusingly at the dead body in front of him. “Maybe I have gone mental.”

The figure flitting at the corner of the room lets out a mischievous guffaw.

“Maybe you have.” The Grim Reaper muses. “That’s a logical explanation to why you can _see_ me.”

Edward laughs, maybe a little bit too loudly but he doesn’t care.

“Rationality be damned. I rather speak to you than any of them.” He scoffs.

It looks slightly puzzled now.

“Are you sure that’s a good thing?” It enquires.

“I don’t think so.” Edward admits after a moment’s pause.

He glances at the wide set eyes inspecting him meticulously.

“But I think I don’t care.”

There’s that comfortable silence that they lapse back into, Edward working on his report and the Grim Reaper watching, until he finally breaks the stillness.

“What costs nothing, but is worth everything. Weighs nothing but can last a lifetime, that one person can’t own, but two or more can share?” His voice trembles ever so slightly.

The Grim Reaper’s brows are raised.

“Love.” It offers, nonchalant.

Edward lets out a nervous giggle.

“Friendship.” He mutters, half amused. “I think,” Edward rests his gaze on it, a little bit too longingly, “I think – I hope we’re friends.”

* * *

 Edward realises he looks forward to work more and more, only because he gets to see the Grim Reaper.

He spends most of the days performing autopsies, even snagging someone else’s work so he can spend time with the ridiculously well-dressed concept of Death. _It’s irrational,_ he knows, but he feels strangely comfortable with it around, even though they don’t talk much.

He knows he lost interest in the bodies piled up from crime scenes, that spark of curious and intent to solve the riddle slowly ebbing away. Instead, he’s more fascinated with the humanoid-like figure, constantly drawing questions and moving around like the enigma it is.

He’s concluded that it’s found his company as enjoyable as he did.

Their routine, however, comes to _a halting stop_ when Edward’s forced to take a month’s leave off work. Everyone’s saying how concerned they are about his health but he’s sure that they’re more alarmed by his relentless mumbling.

“Get some rest please, Edward.” The commissioner tells him. “You look like you’ve seen death.”

Edward lets out a forlorn snuffle, unsure whether to laugh at the irony of it all.

* * *

 It’s the first week of his ‘break’ and he’s found himself slowly deteriorating into a spiral of isolation. He’s found himself often shuffling around his cluttered apartment, bumping onto the mythology books strewn around the living room. Every day draws out so long and thin that he’s surprised when the sun finally sets.

The bond he had shared with the Grim Reaper had been like a bridge out of his fortressed mind, allowing him to step foot outside it’s protective compound, exploring the sun-warmed grass on the other side. Now, severed from the bridge, he felt terribly alone.

He tried calling out for it, but to no avail.

_But there’s something else he can try._

* * *

 It appears, ethereal yet almost tangible to feel. It’s pale paper looking skin and noticeably bright blue eyes a respite from the skinny man he’s been looking at from his mirror. The Grim Reaper looks no different from before, it’s jet hair styled and messily plastered on his head, dressed in a suit adorned with an amethyst-coloured neck wear.

At first it looks mystified, then it shakes its head in amusement.

“Very well, Ed.” It chortles, and Edward tingles at the way it murmurs his name.

“How did she die?”

* * *

On the third day, it finally asks the question.

“Where are you getting these bodies?” It looks impassive, lounging on Edward’s large armchair.

Edward blanches slightly, going rosy in embarrassment.

“I’ve been stealing them from morgues.” He confesses, stumbling a little as he shows off the dead corpse on his living room table.  “Head trauma,” he speaks casually as if it they were chatting about something like the weather, “Blunt force with a sledgehammer. He bled out rather quickly.”

The Grim Reaper nods, stands up and taps the body.

It doesn’t leave this time, instead, it stays and watches Edward clean up the mess. They exchange a few words, Edward passing a snide remark about how it’s dressed, before it finally dematerializes into the dark.

 _Peculiar_. He thinks. _It’s like it’s waiting for something_.

* * *

His co-workers almost caught him off-guard a week ago.

Edward was doing his daily inspecting of an immobile corpse when there’s a rap on his door. He’s not used to visitors generally, so when he realised that – _of all people_ – his colleagues from the forensics department opted to drop by for a visit, he panicked.

Flustered, he threw the cadaver underneath his bed, hurriedly wiping the stains off his living room table whilst gasping “ _Give me a moment, I’m not decent_!”

He was taken by surprise when they came in bringing in small baskets of gifts, from wine bottles to cupcakes. They weren’t usually this _pleasant_ to him, he noted mutely as they gathered in his living room, awkwardly telling him about how business was going as usual. Face blotchy, he had insistently declined a house tour when one of the officers had suggested that to clear up the uneasy atmosphere.

Edward found himself inept and tongue-tied, unable to wield a conversation with anyone, even as grateful as he felt towards them. It was strange, out of his depth – but it was probably _because they felt some sort of worry for him,_ he guessed, for Katherine had even passed him a name card for a psychiatrist whilst he sat on his sofa, twiddling his thumbs nervously.

He noticed that the Grim Reaper had disappeared and couldn’t help but feel terribly abandoned.

 _This isn’t that awful_ , he tried to convince himself.

He managed a throaty gurgle when someone mentioned how his house smelt like the dead and lied through his teeth as he pretended to wholeheartedly agree.

“I need to go out more often.” He offered, smiling with teeth clenched.

They laughed, one of them telling him to be wary about walking alone by himself since there were a few recent reports of kidnapping and murder, bringing Edward up to date on a few killings that happened.

He was sure he only started to breath when they all left his house, wishing him a speedy recovery _(whatever that meant)_ and telling him to cheer up.

He fibbed about hoping for the best.

What he hoped for, was that they didn’t see the leftover _blood stains_ on the rug. 

* * *

Edward knows what he’s doing isn’t right.

He faced the mirror this Tuesday morning and the blood-shot eyes that fixated him back with a stare was no longer the same man named Edward. Bleary eyed and unshaven, he had looked like a zombie, gaunt and pallid. He watched himself walk around the house daily, almost soulless, exhausted from dragging dead bodies up to his apartment. The only good thing that comes out of that is the Grim Reaper.

He’s infatuated with the idea of Death.

“There’s something strange,” Edward mentions that very evening, “That I’ve realised.”

The Grim Reaper is watching Edward with bright blue pools, and tilts its head inquisitively, almost like a curious puppy.

“Back in the autopsy room, or outside during our investigations with the bodies,” He taps his chin thoughtfully, “They sigh every time you tap their shoulder. Why?”

It shrugs.

“Is it because they’ve come to terms with their death? _Why_ they died and _how_ they died?” Edward continues, hoping to get an answer.

He does.

It nods ever so slightly before gazing expectantly at him.

“My father did not _sigh_.” Edward states briskly. “Was he not gratified?”

The Grim Reaper lets out a loud scoff that reverberates through Edward’s small living room space, and for the first time, cracks a sickeningly anomalous smile. It takes its place next to him, hands resting on its cheek with a mischievous twinkle in its eyes.

Edward shivers at _how close_ it is to him.

“Oh _Ed_.” It purrs. “I think you know the answer.”

* * *

The blue and red lights are little more than smudgy illuminations in the slanting rain.

Edward watches the white bodywork of the police cars zip past his window, it’s yellow-white headlights spotlighting the dense dark streets of the town. Behind him, the television blares deafeningly, a report on 19 missing people, each with absolutely no connection to the next – no one knows what happened or who did it and the cops are on constant vigilance.

The report states that there’s no factual motive or connection behind the missing people, but Edward knows better.

After all, during all 19 days of his break, the bodies on the living room table don’t sigh anymore.

* * *

_Your father’s autopsy shows an over dosage of potassium chloride, which can stop a person’s heart_. Katherine is saying over the phone, worried. _Did you know?_

Edward does not reply.

 _Eddie._ Katherine’s voice is shaky. _Your father was murdered._

He remembers slamming the phone and leaving his house in a hurry.

* * *

Edward knows his affair with Death is about to _expire_.

He’s standing in the middle of the rows of tombstones, standing erect in silence, like a sea of the dead. Some crumbled with the weathering of centuries, overgrown and unkempt. His father’s was of smooth marble, inked with black writing and laid with floral tributes.

The cops are at his place now, possibly finding evidence of the brutal murders of the 19 unfortunate people that he had crossed pathways with. _It was necessary_ , Edward tells himself. He made sure it was quick and painless, and that they were never tortured.

There’s a blaring sound of the police siren far off in the city.

Sooner or later, they will find him. 

Dead or alive, Edward doesn’t know.

Either way, he does not care.

He waits.

And sure enough, it appears.

“I stabbed him in the gut and watched him bleed out.” Edward admits, nudging the still body beside him, unconcerned. _So I could see you_. He wants to add but stops himself eventually, feeling bone weary; he knows when he’s defeated.

The Grim Reaper, for once, looks mildly troubled.

“Ed.” It’s voice is cold and calculating. “I know.”

Edward blinks, taken aback.

“You _knew_?”

It shrugs.

“Why follow me around then?” Edward is confused now, wiping his bloodied knife down his trousers. “I thought the reason you shadowed me was because I figured out how these,” He motions helplessly at the dead body on the floor, “ _People died._ So, it’s easier for you to help their souls depart.”

The Grim Reaper nods.

“Indeed.” It taps its black umbrella on the soil. “But I never said it was for them.”

Edward frowns, perturbed.

“So, you were _following_ me around.” He begins sluggishly, the pieces of the puzzle slowly fitting in his head. “ _For me_?”

It nods grandly, not offering an answer.

He knows because it wants an answer _from him_.

“Because,” Edward continues, an unpleasant impending sense of dread creeping up his throat, “Because _like the_ bodies in the autopsy room, the victims out on the streets,” He takes a deep breath.

“ _I_ need to comprehend _why_ I am going to die.”

The Grim Reaper nods.

“I killed all those people so I could _see you_.” Edward states flatly, it sounds awfully asinine so he laughs, neck reddening in embarrassment.

“ **I’m going to die because of you**.”

The Grim Reaper laughs alongside him.

“No, Ed.” It murmurs fondly, “As sweet as that is, it’s not the answer to this riddle.

It tilts its head.

“ _Try again._ ”

It looks bemused as the sirens howled through the evening sky, coming closer.

Edward knows his time is running out.

 “We are back where we started, Ed.” It drones, pointing at his father’s head stone.

And it hits Edward like a _deer in headlights_.

 “Oh.” He blurts out. “ _Oh_.”

_So that’s why he can see it._

He’s been marked for death ever his father died _. By his own hands._

“How am I going to die?” Edward utters after a moment’s pause.

He cannot believe his eyes when it reaches out to pat him on the shoulder, and he gasps - it feels tangible.

He can feel the gaze of death on him, the shouts of the police now audible behind, telling him to stand his ground and to not move - it feels unreal.

“A certain crime is punishable if attempted, not punishable if committed. What is it?” Edward’s voice is hollow and he thinks his eyes are watering.

“Oh Edd.” It purrs, tapping his shoulder lightly, a gentle tender stroke.

“I think you know the _answer_.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my first take on one of my BELOVED PAIRINGS EVER. I was given a writing prompt and I thought it would be fitting for the both of them, hehe. Please do review and leave some love!! Thank you for reading!


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